


The Tunisian

by mlyn



Series: Gods and Monsters [2]
Category: 13th Warrior (1999)
Genre: Historical, M/M, Slash, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-11
Updated: 2006-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 07:04:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlyn/pseuds/mlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning: this chapter contains sexual acts of dubious consent.</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"No, no no! You are not listening!"

It wasn't that he was not listening, Herger thought as he watched Ahmed mount the camel again. It was that he did not ride camels.

He was a sailor, and crossing the Mediterranean had been well suited to him. He was also a horseman, and had been given plenty of opportunities over the months to prove it. But he had never sat on a camel. Firstly, the position was too ridiculous to attempt. There was nothing wrong with throwing a leg over a saddle and taking off, but of course Ahmed couldn't let things be easy.

"And you hold the crop like this." Ahmed sat with both arms raised as if airing out his armpits. He held the reins in one hand and the crop in the other. Herger stifled a laugh.

"Of course. May we go now?"

"Let me see you try it, first."

Sighing to himself, Herger stepped up to his resting camel. He hooked one leg around the saddle horn and tucked the foot under his other leg, leaning on his hip. The camel staggered to its feet. Trying not to show it, Herger grabbed onto anything he could find to maintain his balance. With every little shift, he was about to topple off. Stupid, awkward, and silly. Who had thought of such a way to ride?

"Good!" Ahmed beamed at him. Herger rolled his eyes.

Ahmed went off to speak with the men loading their caravan. At the port in Tunis, they had met with Irene's employee waiting with her shipment. They'd overseen the loading of the ship and delivery of payment, then had to worry about their own possessions.

Ahmed had arranged for camels for riding and carrying their goods, and that was where they stood now. Herger was forbidden from riding his horse; they would be moving through the desert, and camels were better suited for the environment, so the horses would be without riders in the caravan.

Herger hopped off the camel, not bothering to command it to its resting position. Confused, the camel groaned at him and sank to its knees again. Herger ignored it and walked over to his horse.

"Hross," he called. The beast turned its head, recognizing his master's voice.

"Looks like I'll be stuck on the stinking hulk," he told it, patting Hross' neck. "At least you'll get a rest from carrying me, eh?"

Hross snorted and bent back to nibble at the sparse grass growing up around the dock.

As light as he'd kept his tone with Hross, he was actually annoyed at the idea of land travel. He and Ahmed had had more than one argument about it, but Ahmed was determined to take a break from seasickness and go by camel to Sebta. It would waste time, Herger knew, but what really pissed him off was that he wasn't half as sure of himself in a strange country as he was on a ship. Ships were easy; you steered and the wind pushed you.

Herger let Hross go back to his grass when he saw Ahmed approaching. "Now we may go," Ahmed said, sighing a little himself with satisfaction.

"It's dusk! You mean we'll go tomorrow."

"No, now." Ahmed mounted his camel easily and twisted in the saddle, billowing fabric framing his face. "We ride during the coolest times of the day, which sometimes means at night. Follow me, you will not get lost."

Herger bristled. He threw a leg over the saddle of his camel, feeling some satisfaction when Ahmed looked disgruntled at the wrong form. "I am not afraid of getting _lost_ ," he spat at his companion. Taking his crop, he slapped his boot with it, the whistling and snapping sounds emphasizing his irritation.

Ahmed turned away. They had been letting each other's fits of temper go without remark quite often lately. They each called to their camels and moved along with the rest of the caravan.

Despite his emotions, Herger made no more comments as they rode out of Tunis. There was no point in complaining if nothing could be done. The faster they got to Sebta, the sooner he'd be off the giant beast with the fetid breath. He'd lead the group himself if he knew where they were going.  


 

He wasn't so eager after five days in the desert.

The heat was unbelievable. He had never felt anything like it, not in his traveling or on the hottest days in Jutland. It stole his breath and sapped his energy, making it difficult to even sit upright on the camel. And he'd given in to Ahmed's demands about sitting in the saddle, realizing that it was easier to stay on when his legs were locked around the saddle horn. He could sit there, swaying with the motion of the camel, his head spinning as sweat poured out of him, and not fall off. Sometimes he wished he would fall off, just to see what would happen. Maybe they would leave him in the desert to die. Maybe that would be better.

On the fifth day, two men in the caravan ran out of water. Herger had some experience with rationing, since his people were not so scared to venture away from the coasts with their ships and frequently had to ration water. But it gave Herger a bad feeling, and also meant that the rest of the caravan would have to share their water. Herger began cursing every step the camels took, knowing it was a foolish plan Ahmed had set into place, feeling in his gut that something bad was going to happen.

That night, they stopped after sundown for some food and relaxation. Herger dropped his saddle in the sand a long distance from the fire. The last thing he wanted was to be hot!

He lay with his head against the saddle, closing his eyes. Ahmed wanted them to sleep during the day, but Herger was leader of himself if no one else. He slept at night and nothing was going to change that.

He was just starting to doze off, enjoying the cool wind blowing over the dunes, when something jolted him. Opening his eyes, he saw a shrouded figure standing over him. He instinctively reached for the knife in his boot.

"It is I," Ahmed said, dropping to his knees and pulling fabric away from his face.

Herger relaxed his hand, heart thudding. "Don't do that."

"I am sorry."

When he said nothing more, Herger gave him a frown. "What is it?"

Ahmed still hesitated, finally asking his question with trepidation. "You are not happy, are you?"

"What does it matter?" Ahmed was asking ridiculous questions again. Herger lay back against his saddle. "I did not ask you if you were happy in Rus or on the ships, did I? It is traveling; nothing more. What is this preoccupation with happiness?"

"I merely want it for you," Ahmed said quietly. "And the desert is my home. I want you to admire it as I do."

"It's hot, flat, and boring. How could I admire it?"

Ahmed sighed. Herger closed his eyes, hoping for sleep to return.

More jostling disturbed him. Ahmed was stretching out next to him.

"The desert is even beautiful at night. The colors change."

"I don't believe you." Herger closed his eyes again.

"No, look." Ahmed put a hand on his chest, waiting until he had reopened his eyes. "The moon lights the sand, but the color is blue now. Yellow in the day, yes?"

"So it is." Herger refused to be impressed.

"And the cliffs in the distance…orange in the day, blue and black now."

"I see." His vision had long before adjusted to the dimness. The cliffs seemed more massive, monumentally huge where before they had been mere rocks.

"And these eyes...happy at home, angry now."

Herger blinked. Ahmed was looking at him.

"I will make this as easy for you as possible, but I am only a man. I cannot change the heat of the sun or the length of the journey."

Herger nodded, his gaze still locked with Ahmed's eyes. He loved looking in them. They were as black as the spaces between the stars; vast pools of infinity.

"I want to fuck you," he said hoarsely.

Ahmed made a sound of surprise and looked over his shoulder, but no one gathered around the camp fire had heard them. "You know…"

"We cannot. Yes." It frustrated him to no end, that he could not even kiss Ahmed. Even Ahmed seemed unhappy at the way the caravan thwarted their attempts at privacy. They had both become soft and undisciplined, used to the closed doors and permissive air of Irene's home.

Ahmed stood suddenly. The movement and night wind wafted his musky scent over, making Herger ache even more for a taste. Instead Ahmed put distance between them.

"Rest here for a few hours, and then we will continue. I will bring you food."

"I am not hungry."

"You must eat."

Herger cursed to himself as Ahmed got to his feet and walked away quickly. No sex, and now more coddling. His night was definitely taking a turn for the worse.

As if knowing that Herger would try more with him—and he would—Ahmed sent his food over by a camp girl. She handed a plate to him and ignored his suggestive looks. Herger sighed and dug into the mix of couscous and spicy meat, turning his back on the fire.  


 

As they traveled through the night and into dawn, Herger focused more on his surroundings than on the heat. The land they were traveling through was now hillier, with sparse shrubs blanketing the low mountains. They stayed on the camels for the beasts' sure-footedness in the sandy and rocky soil, but Herger kept giving Hross sympathetic looks. His horse could easily handle this landscape, but Hross' demands for water would not allow for him to be used. In this, the camels were also preferable. Herger almost felt bad for admitting it to himself.

And to his surprise, the more he looked at this land, the more his opinion of it changed. In a way it was ugly; stark hills, brown vegetation, hot sun and buzzing insects. In another way it was beautiful, with the pure blue sky overhead and the ways the hills flowed in ripples across the earth. It took a certain way of looking at it to enjoy it.

They stopped for tea in some shade. Ahmed brought a cup of the minty black drink to him, where he was sitting against a scrawny tree.

"Twenty more miles today. In these hills we cannot go very fast. The heat will not allow for us to do it, although the camels could. But then there are the people who live around here…they attack caravans for food or treasure. We must go carefully."

Herger pointed to Ahmed's belt, where the saber Ahmed had purchased in Constantinople was sitting comfortably. "You mean you can't hold them off with that?" he teased.

Ahmed smiled. "It would soon be theirs, I am afraid. They can be brutal men."

Herger sipped his tea and stretched his legs out, leaning back against the tree. "So can I."

"Brutal and kind…an interesting mix." By his tone, Ahmed was playing with him.

"Kind to you, perhaps." Herger lowered his voice, although the other travelers would not be able to understand them, as they were speaking Norse. "But that's because you look so pretty when you suck me."

Ahmed cast his eyes down at that, his lashes sweeping over his cheeks. Herger laughed quietly, pleased at the blush he'd incited.

The caravan leader called to Ahmed in Arabic, prompting him to stand and swallow the rest of his tea. He looked down at Herger. "We must move on."

Despite the caravan's fears, they saw no people throughout the day. As had become the custom, they stopped again to rest at midday, in concession to the sun. Ahmed had shown Herger how to use his riding crop to make a sun shade out of his sleeve, and he lay curled up under it. It did not dispel the heat very much, but it tricked his mind into relaxing enough for a brief rest. The only frustration was when his crop would tip and his sleeve would fall. It made it difficult to fall into anything deeper than a doze.

They had tea again as they rested, then went onward. As had happened with days prior, the afternoon heat sapped Herger of strength and good nature. Ahmed avoided talking to him while he was still grumpy and tired, but by the same measure, traveling seemed to go slower with no one to talk to. By the time they stopped for their evening meal, Herger was in a truly foul mood.

They were stopping at an oasis, for which everyone in the caravan was thankful. It meant replenishing the diminished stores of water, and with fresh spring water, not the stagnant gritty stuff from wells. The mood lightened throughout the caravan as men dismounted and began setting up camp.

Herger tried to shake off his temper while the meal was prepared. After all, he was called "Joyous." But that was among his own people. Here he could hardly understand a word of Arabic, and Ahmed was frequently caught up in other conversations to pay him any attention.

He waited until the dried meat and vegetables had been soaked into a stew, then ladled some out for himself. As he sat back at his place, he noticed a few of the Arabs in the caravan watching him with disgusted looks. One said something to the other, and they exchanged laughter. Herger glared into his bowl.

He ate quickly and then took his bedroll over to the horses, intending to catch some sleep away from the fire. He threw his bedroll down and toed off his boots, then went over to Hross, noting that the big bay seemed nervous.

Hross saw Herger coming and stepped away, bumping into Asiya. Asiya complained in her high-pitched way, jerking her head nervously.

"I cannot believe Ahmed can stand your whining," Herger told her, reaching for Hross' halter. He grinned. "Or is it that you are jealous of me?"

Just as he was taking hold of Hross' halter, Asiya reared and shrieked again. Hross stepped out of her way, making Herger lurch off-balance so he wouldn't get stepped on. He fell backwards into the sand. Asiya's hooves stomped down, barely missing his bare feet.

There was something black in the sand, moving away from some bushes and Asiya's striking hooves. As Herger started to pick himself up, he saw it stretch into a thin length and rush at him.

Then he felt jagged, piercing pain. Yelling, he kicked hard to get the thing off his leg.

The demon flew through the air, then landed with a plop on the sand. The other travelers, alerted by Herger's yell, scrambled to their feet. Through their shouting and the horses' cries, his mind formed the realization: viper.

He rolled upright and grabbed for his leg, pulling the loose pants up to expose his calf. Someone knelt at his side, hands reaching into his line of vision. Vaguely he realized that others were calming the horses, making sure the viper was gone.

"I'm all right," he said. He realized his hands were shaking, and clenched them in his clothing to stop it. He could hear a rushing, buzzing sound in his ears. "I feel no pain. There's no bite."

Ahmed grasped his foot gently and turned it, showing the thickest muscle of his calf. Two neat puncture wounds oozed blood. Herger swallowed, his heart pounding as he watched the blood roll down his leg. The buzzing in his head faded, replaced by a burning, throbbing sensation in his leg.

Two other men, one of them the caravan leader, knelt at Herger's side. They pushed him flat and pulled his leg up toward the sky. He stiffened at their touch, but Ahmed put a hand on his shoulder to reassure him.

"Let them work. Lie still," he instructed firmly. Herger had rarely heard him use that tone. He tried to relax, eyes on the men surrounding him. He had seen snake bites before, though never had one himself. He knew what the men had to do, although he did not relish the treatment himself.

The other man examining him pulled his knife out of his belt. Ahmed's hands pressed hard on his shoulders, pinning him. Herger didn't struggle, though he prayed the man had steady hands.

The knife cuts were minor compared to the agony throughout his whole calf. The man bent his head to Herger's leg, clamping his mouth to the wounds and sucking hard. The procedure sent throbbing pain up to his hip. He bit back his cry of pain and jerked, but the others held him firm.

The man spat into the sand and said something to Ahmed.

"Shallow bite," Ahmed interpreted. "Not deadly, but you will be in pain."

He was in pain already! He pushed against the holds on him. His actions made Ahmed's voice sharp.

"Lie still! You are making the venom move faster through your body."

This penetrated Herger's thoughts. He relaxed, panting, heart pounding. The fire in his leg was still strong and moving up to his knee, but that was the worst of it. He wasn't dead.

The two other Arabs got up and walked away, the one man spitting again. Herger watched them go.

Ahmed released Herger's shoulders and moved around so they could talk face to face. "I promise you, you will be all right if you do as I say."

That grated. Herger had been taking care of himself for most of his life, and he wasn't about to put his well-being in someone else's hands. "I have seen snake bites before. Let us just go, get out of here."

Ahmed's face darkened. "You will not be able to ride in a few hours. Not after the venom sets in. Stay here while I talk to the others. Do not sit up or touch your leg!" he said sternly as he rose.

Ahmed's conversation took a long time, and became quite loud. By the sound of anger from the other Arabs, Herger guessed that they were furious at the trouble he had caused, and at the time they would surely have to waste on him.

While the arguments continued, one of the camp women made a poultice for his leg. As she was tying it on with straps of leather, making Herger grind his teeth, Ahmed returned.

Everything he told Herger confirmed his guesses. Herger had been traveling with traders for most of his life; he understood what things frustrated group leaders.

"They will take us to Annaba," Ahmed told him. "There we can rest until you are better, and find a ship."

"A ship?" Herger knew how hopeful he sounded. They should have found another ship from the beginning, not wasting time on land.

Ahmed smiled. "Annaba is a port. We should be sailing, anyway," he said added with a pained smile. "It takes less time."  


 

When they moved on again later that night, they had to arrange for some mode of transportation that could accommodate Herger. He ended up stretched out on some blankets on top of a wagon full of animal cages. The animals were being transported to Sebta for trade, where they would be taken to great palaces or private gardens of the rich. There were exotic birds and beasts, all unhappy at being caged. Herger eyed a leopard as it growled, but the other Arabs assured Ahmed that he would be fine.

His worries over the big cat were for nothing. His litter was put over some bird cages. They squawked and fluttered beneath him, making resting difficult, but at least they were harmless.

Over the hours, night turned into day. His leg swelled and turned purple closest to the bite. The sun beat down on him and flies buzzed over his body, biting through his clothes and on his face. He became too weak to brush them off. He was dizzy and nauseous, wracked with fever and chills, his head aching like someone had struck a gong inside it.

Ahmed rode next to the wagon and tried to keep him comfortable. He propped up some blankets among the cages to make a tent to shade Herger's body, and forced tea on him to keep him watered. That was all he or the other Arabs could do.

At some points the wagon stopped; for rests or to check on him, Herger could not tell. Ahmed climbed up to him with tea and held a hand against his face, his expression growing more worried with every break.

"Forty miles today," he said at one point. "We must push hard for Annaba." Herger nodded, though his perseverance had little to do with reaching the port.

He dozed for most of the day, although the pain of his leg made it difficult to get any sort of rest. There was a burning sensation up through his thigh, and waves of cramping pain steadily washed through his body. Herger put all thoughts out of his mind unless Ahmed was at his side, whispering how much longer they had to go.

And finally, they reached Annaba.

Herger opened his eyes when he felt ground beneath his back. Three Arabs stepped away from the blanket, dropping the corners they had been holding to carry him, nodding when Ahmed spoke to them in their language. Ahmed knelt when they were gone. He felt Herger's pulse, then rested a hand on his chest.

"I will find us a room, and perhaps a physician. I will take your horse with me. You should be fine here."

Herger nodded wearily, lifting his head to look around. He heard Ahmed ride away and pushed himself into a sitting position, trying to be ready in case he needed to reach his knife. Sleeping in the open in a strange city was a bad idea.

He seemed to be in a back street or alley. No one was visible, though he could hear sounds of a market in one direction, and a baby crying in another. Dawn was on the horizon and the city was slowly awakening.

He felt his waist, and then his chest and sides. His knife was gone. He was not wearing his boots either, so his backup weapon was missing as well. Leaning against a stack of baskets, he wrapped his blanket around himself and closed his eyes. He was too worn out to even curse.

He awoke again when he felt something cloth-like land on his face. Opening his eyes, he only saw woven fabric, with the light filtering through it. He realized that the fabric was the blanket wrapped around him.

He lifted his arm to push it away, but someone knocked his arm down. It was then that he realized there were people around him. A man whispered something in Arabic, his tone urgent and desperate. The blanket lifted unsteadily.

Herger tried to get out of the bundle, but more hands pressed against him and held him down, and then rope was thrown around him. He was being tied into the bundle! When the rope tightened over his legs, he cried out in pain, but the men did nothing in response.

From the jostling and the sounds of footsteps, they had started running with the blanket in the opposite direction from where Ahmed had gone. Herger stopped struggling; he was in too much pain, and could not defend himself even if he could get free. He gritted his teeth and held himself still, waiting for the end.

He was dropped roughly when the men stopped a few minutes later. From the hard surface his ass landed on, Herger guessed he was on something wooden. He heard horses and more voices, then felt and heard rolling wheels on the hard packed street. The motion sent him rolling onto his back, his legs and arms still tucked tight against his body. A wagon.

He tossed his head, working the edge of the blanket away from his face. The sun blinded him for a moment, and then something blocked it from view.

A thin young girl leaned over him, one of the dark natives of Africa. She said something in her tongue and reached both hands toward his face. As she brushed his hair out of his eyes, he saw that her hands were bound in heavy iron shackles.

The sight of her bonds sent dread through him. The rope around him was the least of his problems now. The men who had grabbed him were slavers. For whatever reason they had thought him worthy enough to grab off the street. Blond hair was prized in this land for its rarity, but he had never feared for his freedom before. But now, too weak to defend himself or escape, he was their prisoner.  


 

The wagon traveled for many hours out of Annaba. The slavers stopped only once to unwrap the blanket and put shackles on his wrists, not caring when he didn't get up.

As the ride went on Herger began to fear for his life, and not because of his captors. He had sweated so much from the blanket and his fevers that his mouth felt dry and his head dizzy. If he did not get water soon, his condition would be beyond saving. In addition to this, his leg was still swollen, and the muscles around the bite seized in constant cramps. He was starting to wonder if he would keep his leg after all.

The wagon finally stopped again. The slaves in the wagon looked around, talking among themselves in their own tongue. Herger didn't look up, but he could hear the slavers walking around to the back of the wagon.

One man started yelling one word repeatedly. The prisoners got to their feet and climbed out of the wagon, forming a line in the dirt. Apparently the Arab was calling for them to stand up.

Another Arab started prodding Herger with a riding crop, trying to get him to his feet. Herger rolled upright to a sitting position, struggling to maintain his balance.

The Arab yelled his word again, and the other man whacked his crop against the side of Herger's head.

"Fuck off," he said hoarsely, but of course they could not understand. He tried to move toward the edge of the wagon.

Seeing him favor his leg, the one with the crop realized something was wrong. He circled the wagon and put the tip of his crop into the tear of Herger's pant leg, nudging it aside to see more clearly. The crop brushed the swollen, blistered skin of his calf and Herger howled with pain, rolling away onto the bed of the wagon.

The other Arab came over, yelling something to his companion. An argument broke out between them. The truth was now evident: Herger was damaged goods.

Eventually, the crop-wielder reached into the wagon and grabbed Herger's shirt, pulling on it in an obvious message. Herger forced himself upright again and moved until his legs dangled off the wagon, then put his weight on his good foot. He stood and swayed in place, struggling not to throw up. Just being upright changed the way he felt, and the pain was extreme.

The Arabs motioned for the other slaves to help Herger, all of them moving into the shade of some small trees. Immediately next to him there was the girl who had helped him with the blanket earlier, and a young male with healthy muscles. Another female, a girl too young for breasts and with tear-streaked cheeks, was on his other side.

The Arab who had been yelling came up to the young male and said something quietly to him. He looked at the sun then squinted at the horizon; something about time and an arrival. Their buyer, perhaps; Herger guessed.

Indeed, after all of this activity, the Arabs began sitting around and waiting. They passed water bladders around to keep the slaves' thirst quenched, for which Herger was grateful. But at the same time all of the slaves, Herger included, were forced to remain standing. It was mid-afternoon and the heat was intense. Even with the refreshing water and shade, Herger kept leaning onto the older girl for support. He was simply waiting for his strength to give out. With every minute that passed, he was sure the next would be the final one for his stamina.

Finally they heard camels and saw dust rising over a hill. The slavers stood as a group came into view. The young man standing next to Herger grabbed his shoulder and pushed him straighter, bracing him. Herger realized after a hazy moment why he was concerned about appearances. If the buyer was not satisfied with the goods, the slavers would punish them.

One of the new Arabs, this one dressed in the same kind of fine riding clothing Ahmed wore, dismounted from his camel and waited for the slavers to approach him. They talked for a moment, then crossed over to where Herger and his group stood.

The new Arab looked at Herger first. Not only was Herger tallest among the four, but his fair skin, blond hair, and finer clothing set him apart. The man's expression was clearly appreciative as he examined Herger carefully, walking around him to get a full view. He said something to the other Arabs, but his voice was skeptical.

The Arabs responded quickly. From their gestures to him, he guessed that the buyer was displeased at Herger's sickly appearance. They even forced more water on him, one man splashing a little on his face and patting his cheeks. Herger jerked his head away. The buyer seemed satisfied with their explanation.

The buyer then gave cursory glances over the other slaves. He checked the boy's teeth and pulled up the older girl's eyelids.

Then he looked over Herger one last time, and turned away.

The boy grabbed Herger's shoulder just as he sagged. He locked the knee of his good leg, trying to balance all his weight on it, and nodded for the boy to release him. The buyer had noticed nothing. He was talking to the slavers and motioning toward the way he had come.

The man then mounted his camel and rode off with his entourage. In better moods now, the slavers herded Herger and the rest of the slaves back into the wagon, undoubtedly to deliver the bought slave. Herger climbed back into the wagon bed and collapsed, shaking with exhaustion and pain. He fell quickly to sleep.  


 

He was awakened around dusk. When he opened his eyes, he saw the rest of the slaves looking in the direction the wagon was heading. He lifted his head far enough to see over the edge of the wagon, and noted an elaborate compound of building made in the dried mud brick style. Islamic arches decorated the doorways, and patterned screens covered the windows.

The wagon pulled to a stop in the front courtyard, and the process of unloading began all over again. This time, only Herger was directed to get out. He moved as quickly as he could, with some of the slaves giving him a hand.

An older man came out of one of the buildings. From his clothing and demeanor, he seemed to be a slave as well; probably head of the household. He spoke briefly to the slavers while looking over at Herger, then gave them money. The slavers drove off.

As the lead slave walked toward him and the wagon departed, Herger finally felt a surge of panic. He had no idea where he was, nor what would be done to him when they discovered his condition. Even if he could escape to safety, he could not even speak with anyone to get help. For the first time, he cursed himself for never learning Ahmed's language, as Ahmed had learned his.

The lead slave opened his arms, gesturing Herger toward the house, like he was herding camels. Herger stayed in his place, staring numbly at the departing wagon, mind racing to figure out what to do next. The slave took his arm and tried to push him onward.

"No—I need…" Herger said, although it was useless. The slave used both hands and more force on his arm. His weight-bearing leg twisted uncomfortably, forcing him to stumble onto his bad leg. He cried out and fell forward, catching himself on his hands, though just barely. His face hit the dirt immediately thereafter.

The slave said something angrily and pushed his sandaled foot into Herger's side. He rolled over and dropped his head back to the dirt, staring up at the sky. The slave would get his master, who would either beat him or kill him. It was not worth the trouble to get up.

As he had guessed, the slave frowned at him, then went into the main building.

A long while passed before anything else happened. Finally the buyer came out with his slave, moving without any hurry. He had changed clothing from his riding outfit, and Herger could see his face better. He had a thick black beard and generous lips, with strong bone structure and deeply set eyes. His close-cropped dark hair was exposed to the air; no turban covered his head. He was handsome in a swarthy way, and probably only a few years older than Herger himself. His clothes were made of fine materials, but lacked the elaborate trimmings Ahmed enjoyed.

He stopped next to Herger and looked at him for a moment, then squatted and began prodding him.

Herger allowed this until the man poked his thigh. He twitched and pushed away the buyer's hand, making a sound of warning. The man saw the holes in his pant leg, and touched the fabric lightly.

Herger expected the worst, but it did not come. The man tore the fabric open, taking care not to disturb Herger any more. He frowned deeply when he saw the swollen and red condition of Herger's leg.

Herger said "Viper," as best as he could remember the Arabic word. It was enough; the man looked at him and nodded.

" _Res ipsa loquitur_ ," Herger murmured, wondering if the man knew Latin.

He raised his head from examining Herger's leg, meeting his eyes. "It does speak for itself," he agreed, shifting easily into Latin as well.

Herger sighed. One tree felled; a forest more.

"I am not a slave," he said slowly, praying to every god he knew that the man would believe him. "I was captured in Annaba. Let me go back there."

The man stood, brushing dust off his clothes. "I am happy that you are educated, but I am not happy that you are damaged."

Herger's hopes fell. He stared up at the man from the ground, feeling more like a kicked dog than a man. Never before had he laid prone under the power of another man…not without wanting to be there.

"It does not matter who you say you are or what you are doing here; I bought you and you are mine. You will recover and grow strong again, and then you may work."

With that, he went back into the house. The lead slave leaned over and offered a hand to Herger. Herger took the offered hand and got to his feet.

"Geizbart," the slave said, pointing to himself by way of introduction, his accent and name identifying him as a man from the Holy Roman Empire. He was darkly tanned and had long gray hair, but in studying his features more carefully, Herger saw that clearly he was from Northern stock.

Herger introduced himself in turn, then asked, " _Sacrum Romanum Imperium_?" trying to confirm in Latin if he was right in his guess.

Geizbart shook his head, obviously confused by the Latin. Herger sighed. He was getting nowhere, in more than one sense.

Geizbart motioned toward the house and tugged on Herger's arm, then seemed to realize that Herger wouldn't get very far on one leg. He offered a shoulder and helped Herger hobble through the courtyard and outer door.

There was an interior courtyard beyond that, with a reflection pool and lush plants. Herger was surprised at how cool and lovely it was in here, but he wasn't able to enjoy it. Geizbart kept moving.

Slowly but surely, he took Herger through the hot kitchen and into some crowded quarters. The people here looked at Geizbart with mixed expressions of affection and respect. The other slaves, Herger guessed, although they looked good for slaves. They were well-fed and had clothing to cover them, and were not afraid to stop and stare at Herger in fascination as Geizbart helped him to a cot and let him lay down.

Geizbart said something to the crowd, and they went back to their tasks in a flash of obedience. Then he turned to Herger and said something slowly, motioning with his hands, palms facing Herger with a pressing motion. _Stay here_ , most likely. Herger nodded.

He closed his eyes and let himself relax a little, realizing that although his leg still hurt terribly, he did not feel so overheated now. Perhaps the fever had broken. He fell asleep wondering this, his body giving in to the spartan comforts of the cot.

 

  


Ahmed returned to the alley with the horses, but when he got there, he was confused. Herger was nowhere to be found. Their possessions had been scattered across the road, the food and tradable goods obviously stolen. Had Herger tried to fight off the thieves? Where was he?

He dismounted from Asiya and released the reins of Herger's horse. Examining the area of the alley where he had left Herger, he noted that the sand was finely disturbed in a swept pattern, as if the blanket had been brushed across it. There were many sets of footprints as well. A few feet away the sand ended in the hard-packed dirt road, and no more footprints could be found.

Whatever had happened, it was clear that Herger had not walked away.

Ahmed looked up and down the alley road again, hoping that perhaps Herger would just appear and all would be well. There was nothing but a puff of dust in the wind and the empty baskets where he had left his companion.

"All right. Calm down. Think," Ahmed murmured to himself, breath quickening as panic and worry set in. He felt the sweat chill on his back and tried to ignore it. Asiya stepped forward and brushed her nose against his shoulder, sensing his distress.

"Where did he go?" he asked her, voice shaking. "Was he taken?"

The idea solidified in his mind. It would explain the marks in the sand, if he had been bodily lifted. But how was he to search for a missing person?

He started rubbing Asiya's face, comforting himself with her. After several minutes he realized that Herger's horse was sniffing around the baskets.

Hope renewing, he dropped the horse's reins and waited to see what he would do. The bay took a few steps down the alley, then turned to look over at Ahmed.

"Of course not," Ahmed murmured. The horse was no tracker, like a dog or a falcon. He came back down the alley to Ahmed and pushed his nose against Asiya's, trying to wrest Ahmed's attention from her.

"I have no apples," Ahmed told him, thinking of the times in Constantinople he would sometimes sneak the horses treats. He patted his nose, then mounted Asiya and took up the empty set of reins.

He had only questions.

 

 

Herger awoke the next morning disoriented and exhausted. His whole body seemed to hurt, not with muscle strain, but fatigue. In addition, he had not eaten in over a day and had drunk only the small amount of water the slavers had provided.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, trying to figure out what to do next. As he was focusing his sleepy mind, he saw Geizbart enter the room, with the master following. The buyer waited for Geizbart to arrange a chair for him, then sat by the cot and leaned close to Herger.

"I am Siraj al-Tunayzi," he said in Latin. "You will call me ‘Master.'"

Herger nodded.

"What can you do?" Siraj asked next.

"Do?"

"...'Master,' " Siraj prompted, looking cross.

Herger bit the inside of his cheek. Paying homage was stupid and a waste of time. But he wasn't in a position to argue over mere words. "I do not understand your question. Master."

A look of satisfaction came into Siraj's eyes, and he continued. "You are a slave in my household. You are not a guest. I expect you to work when you are able."

The idea was less than appealing, but, being a man of his people, Herger understood slavery and all it entailed. The only difference with him was that he would seek out every form of escape before submitting to being a slave. Still, as long as he was lame, there was no use in causing trouble for himself. He pretended to be obedient.

"I can fight," he answered. "And sail and ride. I speak Latin and Norse and Greek. I have been a trader for over twenty years."

Siraj did not look any more pleased. "Languages and boats? What good are those to me?"

Herger's mood darkened. He may be lame, but he could still probably kill the man in a fight. He looked heavy and big under his clothes. Probably sat around drinking tea all day.

He said nothing, waiting for Siraj to give him a reason to attack.

"I would as soon wet my knife with you than have you take up space. You would eat my food and drink my water, and for what?"

Herger pushed himself up, recognizing the fighting words. But Siraj was faster, and did not hesitate to pull a dagger as he stood. Herger stopped when he saw a flash and felt the blade on his throat. The room was dead silent.

"You would tempt me?" Siraj murmured. His dark eyes flashed with intent. The shine from the dagger threw light across his face, making him look evil.

Herger snarled. "Do it!"

Siraj didn't move. Herger put more power in his voice, yelling "DO IT!" and pushing up against Siraj's knife. The blade pressed into his throat, and for a moment he felt his skin begin to sting against the blade edge. Then Siraj backed away.

"The last thing I will do is give you what you want. You are here to serve me!" His voice rose with anger as he sheathed his knife. He towered over the cot. "I will find out what you value most, and hold it from you until you are willing to do my bidding. We will start with daily meals. Until you change your mind, you can lie here."

He turned. Herger pushed himself upright, swinging his legs off the cot with a vague idea to confront the man. But he could go nowhere, do nothing but watch as Siraj walked out.

Ignoring the murmurs of the awakening slaves around him, Herger clenched his fists and stared at the dirty wall and rough wood door a few feet away. It was, he realized, the only sight he would be looking at for some time.

 

 

The people living in the neighborhoods of Annaba were leery of strangers, but relaxed a little when Ahmed explained that he was only looking for his friend. The fact that he was nicely dressed and shaved probably helped some, because he did not look like a brigand. But despite these advantages, everyone shook their heads and closed their doors with no help given.

It seemed almost as if they were scared, Ahmed realized after having the twentieth door shut in his face. But why be scared of answering such simple questions? Perhaps whoever had taken Herger wielded considerable power over these people.

Ahmed felt a chill run over him, thinking of the way the Northmen had been afraid when talking about the Wendol. What did these people believe? What demons terrorized them?

As soon as that thought had passed, Ahmed shook his head at himself. He was being ridiculous. He only had to work harder, think more clearly.

Giving up on the citizens, Ahmed found a sick house and went inside. He looked around at the sad wretches on cots, many writhing and coughing with sickness. Ahmed covered his mouth and found a healer. Despite his hopes, the man said he had not seen a Northman with blond hair and a leg wound.

He needed help, Ahmed thought as he left the sick house to the setting sun's rays. He was out of options. The next morning he would check on the horses and consider leaving Annaba, carrying on his search outside the city.

He choked back panic at the thought. The lands were vast beyond this city. Herger would not survive them alone. More to the point, Ahmed had no idea where to start looking. But he would not give up yet.

 

 

On the second day, Herger awoke to a quiet voice. A hand touched his shoulder. In the early dawn light, he opened his eyes and made out the figure of an older woman bending over him, saying something in the Arab tongue.

She coaxed him to sit upright and began tugging on his shirt. Too sleepy to protest, he let her strip him to the waist. As she tossed his shirt to the dirt floor, he noticed that she had a bucket of water, a box, and some rags. Herger rubbed the sleep from his face and eyes and examined her.

She was old enough to be his mother, bent with a crone's hump by a lifetime of work. Her hands were thin and strong like sapling branches, characteristics that matched the rest of her. She wore a simple brown shift with a length of twine for a belt, and ratty sandals that looked ready to fall off her feet. From what he had seen the day before, it was a uniform the rest of the slaves wore as well. But the other slaves were still asleep on their blankets, some snoring or twitching in their sleep. The room was dark, light so weak through the one narrow window that it could not touch the dimness of the room, nor could the stifling, smelly air escape through the tiny portal.

The woman then set about washing him with a dripping rag, using efficient swipes to get rid of the sweat and grime from his travels. Then she stood in front of him next to the cot and gestured at his legs with the rag. He gave her a cautious look and put his hand in his lap, trying to convey his meaning. She laughed hoarsely and gestured again, her hand now moving in a flicking motion, directing him. He shrugged and lay back long enough to work his pants down past his hips, exposing his nakedness to her.

She knelt and pulled the pants down further. For the first time since she had awoken him, she showed caution and care as she eased the pants over his bad leg, then tossed the garment onto his discarded shirt.

He realized then that he would not be getting the clothes back, and felt bad for the fact. The emotion surprised him; he had hated the clothes at first, but now they were one of few things to physically remind him of Ahmed, and he had grown to like them for their usefulness in the desert. To have them tossed away like rags was even more disheartening.

The woman was oblivious to his look of dismay. She continued washing him with a rough hand, from his hips to his toes, but only squeezed a rag full of water over his groin rather than rub him there. His bad leg she left for the end. He pulled the dry rag over his lap, watching as she knelt at his feet. When she wiped her rag gently over his calf, he felt a twinge of pain, but bearable. Neither of them made a sound.

From the box she took a plant frond, which she split in half, showing a pulpy center with thick juice. The juice turned out to be more of an ointment, which she scooped out with a finger. Then she grabbed his ankle and gave him a glance, only long enough to make sure that he knew what she was going to do.

He bit his cheek as she touched the bite, but continued his silence. The ointment in fact felt good on his leg, cool and soothing. He relaxed as she finished treating the area and wiped her hands off on her rag.

Putting her hand on his knee, she said something with a grunt of effort and pushed herself to her feet. Too late he reached for her elbow to help her, ineffectively brushing his hand against her leathery arm. She smiled and patted his thigh as she straightened, then picked up her supplies and his dirty clothes. She snatched the rag from covering his manhood at the last moment. Without another word or glance, she headed out of the room, leaving him naked on the cot.

Geizbart walked in scant seconds later, and laughed when he saw Herger's state. Herger didn't bother covering himself. He refused to be ashamed.

Geizbart dropped a few items to his lap. Picking them up, Herger found them to be a set of the same simple clothes all the other slaves wore.

Logically, he recognized the plan Siraj was implementing. Make slaves feel like slaves, with all the trappings and treatments of that class, and their spirits will be broken. He was also making good on his promise to make Herger as miserable as possible, taking away everything he cared for. By luck or by excellent observation, he had taken something Herger hadn't even known he'd enjoyed: the fine riding clothes Ahmed had given him.

But Herger had a plan of his own. He was going to bide his time and wait for the right moment to strike back. He could be as cunning and vicious as the viper that had bitten him, not weak and cowardly like a cow. That must have been why the gods had made the snake bite him, he realized: to show him his most suitable opponent. The snake had been attracted to the same qualities it had in itself.

He pulled on the shift and tied the strip of leather for the belt, but dropped the shoes under the cot. He wouldn't be needing them yet. Geizbart walked away as Herger stretched out and lay back again.

The fabric of the shift was scratchy and smelled like farm animals. Herger determinedly ignored it as he closed his eyes. It was early yet; he could sleep a few more hours.

 

 

Ahmed woke before dawn. He sat up in confusion, staring around the dark room until he remembered where he was. His body no longer knew when to be tired or when to be awake, and as a result he was now tired all the time. Dragging himself out of bed, he quickly dressed and went to the corral.

The horse master was doling out feed and water when he arrived. Ahmed had not met him before; earlier there had only been stable boys here. He watched as Ahmed greeted Asiya and Herger's horse, chewing on a stem of hay himself. When Ahmed pulled out his purse for payment, he spit the stem out and crossed his arms over his chest, reaching up one hand to stroke his uneven beard. His clothes had once been fine but were now filthy and ragged. When he spoke, Ahmed recognized from his tone—and the smell of his breath—that this was a person who was ignorant in the ways of higher society, but had somehow come into money to buy the clothes on his back.

"Why do you have two? That is no pack horse."

"It belongs to my companion." Ahmed mustered the energy to repeat his now oft-practiced speech. "I am trying to find him; have you seen a Northman, my height, yellow hair, fair skin?"

The horseman watched Ahmed for a few silent moments, squinting eyes examining him thoroughly before he shook his head. "I have not. But he would be highly prized around here. You must be angry at losing property like that."

Ahmed nearly struck himself as the realization hit him. His mind raced as he formed a response that would seem natural to the man, not give off implications that Herger was anything other than a slave.

"You have a keen mind," he started, hoping a compliment would help. "I fear he has been stolen. It was my own stupidity, leaving him alone while he is ill and injured."

The man laughed, covering his mouth as if to shield Ahmed from insult. "Ill? Someone has had a rude surprise!"

Ahmed nodded, his grin completely forced now. He waited for the man's laughter to fade, then asked quietly, "Please. What do you know?"

The man turned coy, smiling to himself as he went about feeding the other horses. "It may be that I sold some stock to a group of slavers a few days ago. They were here in the city briefly and needed good horseflesh to take them the rest of the way on their journey." He looked up at Ahmed. "I have excellent horses. The best in Annaba, in three hundred miles even."

The man bragged; Tunis was less than three hundred miles away and it undoubtedly had better and more abundant horses, but Ahmed was not about to say so. He nodded in agreement.

"Did they say where they were going?"

"They have their own routes, meeting buyers in secret. I could not even tell you landmarks."

Ahmed cursed, loudly, before he could stop himself. The man looked over his shoulder as he poured water into a trough, eyes widened at Ahmed's passion.

"There may be something," he added, sounding sympathetic. "The swordsmith was in town weeks ago, looking for help out at his place."

"You think he bought slaves? Please, where does he live?"

"I will do better than tell you directions." The horseman set down the bucket and brushed off his hands. "I will take you to him, tomorrow."

Ahmed sighed with relief, nodding gratefully. The smith may not have bought Herger, but perhaps he had seen Herger among other slaves. It would be worth the ride to find out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains sexual acts of dubious consent.

"Hey! Boy! Come here...." Herger smiled charmingly at the youth. He swung his feet off his cot and sat up, waiting for the slave boy to approach.

He was probably around eight years of age, and had been sneaking glances at Herger every chance he got over the last two days. As Herger had remained in the slave quarters and the slaves had been off at their tasks, it wasn't a lot of attention, but noticeable.

"Do you think you could get me some food?" He made a gesture of putting something in his mouth. The boy watched him, wide-eyed, and said nothing.

A spatter of angry Arabic startled him. Looking up, he saw Geizbart glaring at them. The boy turned heel and ran out of the room.

"I need to eat," Herger said, still trying to maintain his friendly tone. "I know you can make that happen."

With the slaves dispersing at dawn for their daily duties, he was now on his third day in Siraj's home with nothing but water and medicinal tea in his stomach…an ironic turn of phrase, since he had limped over to a piss pot and emptied his bladder the night before. Siraj could have this battle of wills, as long as Herger got something to eat.

Geizbart stood there for a moment, just watching him. Herger felt like he saw him—suddenly, truly saw him. And what he saw was an old man far from his own world, doing what he had to in order to survive, even if that meant hurting other people. There was a flicker of empathy between them; he saw it in Geizbart's eyes, and knew Geizbart saw it in his. Then the old man turned and left the room.

Herger's stomach growled loudly. Herger put a hand over his belly and sighed, looking around the room. He was reaching his wits' end.

Then Geizbart returned with a small bowl. Herger straightened up and looked over the lip as Geizbart held it out.

It seemed to be water mixed with something, flour perhaps, to make a soup. The concoction was too thin to even be called gruel. And it was cold; no heat came from it as Herger looked at it. No great allowances had been made, that was for certain.

Still, Herger took it. He was given no spoon, and Geizbart waited expectantly, so he drank the tasteless stuff and handed back the empty dish. If it was possible, he felt more hungry now, he thought as Geizbart left.

This was ridiculous. He couldn't live like this; bored and hungry, relegated to a cot because his owner was angry with him. It was time to try something different, something to win him over to Siraj.

And in the meantime, he had to get strong again. His leg was better, maybe even good enough to limp on.

He stood, carefully putting his weight on his leg. It hurt but he could stand. Tugging on the itchy, rough shift, he hobbled to the door and checked the hallway. It was empty.

It was a bit difficult navigating the dark house, when the last time he had been through them he had been faint with illness and thirst. He moved toward light sources and fresh air, until finally he found a courtyard in the back of the house. There were more trees and plants here, but these were more the variety that grew in the desert; rough and brown, like everything else. It was empty, and there was only one door leading to the enclosure. It was unlikely he'd be seen if people didn't look out the door as they passed by.

Herger made his way to one of the trees and tested the lowest branch. It would support his weight. He then began pulling himself up using only his arm strength. Easy enough. He pushed up until the branch was at his waist, then threw his legs over it, one at a time, until he was sitting.

Over the courtyard wall he could see distant hills, and trees and plants growing densely in one area; probably a water source. But beyond that, he could see no roads, no other buildings, no landmarks. Nothing.

Herger looked away, down at himself, wearing the scratchy brown shift. His leg, still a little swollen around the bite. Bare feet, pale from being encased in boots.

Huffing out an angry breath, he scrambled down from the tree and went to explore the rest of the house.  


 

Hours later, he was back on his cot when the slaves returned from their evening meal. Now that he was feeling better, he was more aware of his surroundings. He counted four slaves, excluding Geizbart. There was the old woman and the boy, plus a man and woman about his age. They seemed to be a pair, and kept to themselves.

Geizbart saw him sitting up and looking around, and gave him a look of skepticism. In reaction, Herger stood up with both feet planted.

Geizbart nodded, then turned to the lamp on the wall. While Herger was still standing there, Geizbart blew the light out.

 

 

On the third day without Herger, Ahmed departed from Annaba, riding southwest with the horseman. He felt sick with nervous excitement, his mind racing with thoughts of what condition Herger was in and what Ahmed could do to get him back. Asiya had fairly danced with nervousness herself, tossing her head as he had tried to put on her bridle and bit. She could sense the birds in his stomach, flapping their wings as minutes dragged on.

He had spent all of the previous day in such a state, pacing his room, looking at the packet of letters he had made in Constantinople. He had not even opened the packet, fearing that reading the statement of his ownership of Herger would cast a curse of failure on this whole campaign and ruin his hopes.

The packet was tucked inside his clothes now, close to his chest. He could feel the weight of the leather pressing against him, and reassured himself of its presence by brushing his arm against it every few minutes. Soon he could pull it out and take Herger back to Annaba, to the port, to a boat, away from here. Soon.

He and the horseman rode all day with hardly any words exchanged between them. Fast and hard they went, both horses blowing and sweating as they pounded over shrub-blanketed hills and rocky valleys. They stopped at a thin stream to water the horses around midday, then continued without pausing for food.

As the sun began to sink low in the sky, creating long shadows and dipping between the hills, Ahmed began to wonder when they would reach the swordsmith's place. This was barren country, no signs of traveling or living here. No roads or even a dirt track. If the swordsmith lived out here, why was there no sign of him?

The horseman led the way out of a gully and up a slope, his horse digging for footing in the loose, rocky soil. Dirt and rocks cascaded down the hill behind the horse's pumping flanks. Ahmed watched him ride up, waiting for the river of soil to stop before starting up himself. He could hear Asiya panting and patted her neck, feeling the hair soaked with sweat.

They made it partly up the hill and continued along a flat space. From the vantage Ahmed could see further down the valley; still, no houses or spreads of land worked by man. His heart in his throat, he kicked Asiya and rushed forward, coming abreast with the horseman.

"When will we be there?"

The man did not look at him. "Soon. Three miles."

"Show me. You have a map? Or draw in the dirt. I want to know where we are going."

The man gave him a hard glance. The sun was completely behind the hills now, blue shadows everywhere. A cool breeze was picking up.

Finally, the man pulled to a halt at a place where the ground was flat and broad enough for both of them to bring their horses abreast and stop. Ahmed dismounted and watched the man take up a stone and begin to draw in the dust.

"The hills go here, like this." He drew two curved lines facing away from each other. "The valley between. We go down the valley, riding another hour maybe. The hills open up into a lowland. He is there."

That told him nothing other than the obvious! Ahmed's face burned as he watched the man stand and look at him. There was the tiniest hint of satisfaction on his face.

Without thinking, Ahmed reached for his belt and pulled the saber free. The gold and steel flashed in the weakening light. The man took a few steps back as Ahmed swung his arm twice in a display of speed, then swept the blade up to the man's throat.

"Stop lying to me."

"I am not! Put away your weapon!"

Ahmed hesitated, thinking perhaps he had been paranoid and misjudged the man. But then, he saw the man's hand move slowly toward his hip.

He swung the saber around and brought the edge in toward the man's waist, only to have his swing countered by a dagger. They stumbled away from the horses as their blades clashed, ringing in the hills.

The man went on the offensive, putting force behind a block and pushing his blade down Ahmed's saber to the hilt. A hand wrapped around Ahmed's wrist, trying to force his hand to release the saber. Ahmed kicked out and felt his boot connect with the man's knee, sending him off balance. He fell to the ground, dragging on Ahmed's wrist as he went.

Ahmed pulled his hand free but could not regain his balance. He stepped on a large round rock and felt it roll under his boot, tipping him further. He saw the man's eyes widen as he fell on top of him. He closed his eyes with the impact, expecting to feel the sting of the dagger in his gut.

Instead he only felt the rough clothes and hard body of the man beneath him. He knocked his head into the man's jaw, making them both cry out as Ahmed rolled away. And then the ground fell out from under him.

He was rolling down the slope backwards, the loose soil giving way under his weight. In the wheeling dance of sky and ground, upside-down and sideways, he caught a glimpse of the man falling after him. He rolled and jostled on, hand out to stop himself, the saber flying out his grasp. Finally a bush caught him.

He untangled himself from the sharp, tough stems and stood, spotting the horseman coming to a stop a few feet away. Pulling his dagger from his boot, Ahmed surged over and straddled the man, digging the blade into the softness below his armpit. One good push and he'd put the blade into his chest between his ribs, hitting a lung or his heart.

"All right. All right!" The man held up his hands in surrender. A trickle of blood slid through the dust on his forehead. "I was taking you to a camp out of the valley. I know the men there; they are the slavers who were in Annaba. We take money from people who come across us."

"And the swordsmith?" Ahmed felt dust in his mouth but did not turn his head even to spit. He kept his eyes locked on the man's dirty, bearded face.

"…In the opposite direction. Fifty miles as the falcon flies; thirty from Annaba." The man winced as Ahmed dug his blade in closer. "I will take you to the slavers and they will tell you if they had your slave. I swear! Or you may have my life and my horses."

"I will have your eyes and your tongue first if you mislead me again," Ahmed swore. Now he spit. The dusty gob landed on the man's cheek.

Ahmed stood and put his dagger away, waiting for the man to stand and lead the way back up the hill to the horses. As they made their way back up the hill, he collected the saber and his turban. His back ached and stung from rolling over rocks, but he felt satisfied at finally getting an honest answer. From the fear and respect in the man's eyes, he knew he had one.

 

 

The next morning, Geizbart led Herger from the room as the other slaves dispersed for their chores. They went past the courtyard Herger had found the day before, out into another yard. There Herger saw a familiar sight: an anvil and fire, blacksmith's tools hanging around on racks, and a man pounding iron. The metallic ringing was loud across the yard. Evidently he had not been working in the days since Herger had arrived, or he surely would have heard him.

Although they approached slowly at Herger's pace, Siraj did not notice them until Geizbart bowed and called for him. Only then did he stay his arm from another swing. He gave them a glance and finished the round of strikes while the iron was still hot yellow, then stuck the bar back in the fire and put his hammer down.

"So, you are better," he said in Latin to Herger.

Herger nodded, keeping his eyes averted. "Yes, Master."

"And willing."

Herger cast him a glance, wondering if there was another meaning to his words, but Siraj's face showed nothing in the morning light. He nodded again and repeated his words.

"I will put you in the kitchen for now. You may help there, and will not have to stand. Tonight I will figure out what else to do with you."

Herger had barely nodded again when Siraj started speaking to Geizbart in Arabic, probably relaying his directions. Geizbart nodded and spoke briefly in return; it sounded like thanks. With that, Geizbart turned and gestured for Herger to lead the way back to the house, and the loud sounds of smithying started up again behind them.

Kitchen work was women's work, but at least Herger didn't have to stand to do it. He chopped meat and vegetables at a table for an hour, then helped cook a large midday meal for the entire household, from Siraj to the youngest slave.

Cooking wasn't entirely foreign to him. He and his brethren had taken turns cooking while on the trade routes, and Weath used to say he preferred Herger's roasted rabbit over any other meat. Although he had not cooked the meat himself, it tasted delicious after four days without a good meal.

He ate in the kitchen with the woman who ran it. After the meal, she put him to work washing the cookware. He was shown outside of the compound walls, to the small river that trickled from a nearby lake. There he knelt on the muddy banks and washed the dishes. The heat was atrocious, beating down upon him as he washed in the sunlight. He put his back into it, trying to get done as quickly as possible so he could get back inside.

The woman was sitting at the work tables when he returned. He was red-faced and sweating, hair straggled around his face from exertion. She ignored him, focusing on sharpening her knives.

He sat himself down away from the cook fire and closed his eyes, resting while he had the chance. He must have dozed, made sleepy by the soft heat of the fire, because it felt like some time later when he was nudged awake. The woman got back to work, and the preparation began for the evening meal.

This time Herger did not eat in the kitchen. Geizbart had the woman prepare a tray, and put Herger to delivering it. Herger followed Geizbart slowly, trying not to disturb the various dishes and vessel of wine as he limped along, until Geizbart showed him to a set of elaborately carved double doors in a part of the house he had not had the opportunity to explore. The images in the dark wood reminded him of the doors at Hrothgar's lodge. The sudden recollection was jarring. Geizbart opened the doors for him and left.

He bore the tray inside, looking around the rooms for Siraj. He couldn't see anything at first; the rooms were divided by gauzy silk curtains and the patterned screens the Arabs liked so much. Finally he heard a voice.

"Herger." So Siraj knew his name; undoubtedly Geizbart had told him. "Put the tray down, and come here."

Herger found an empty divan and did as he was told. He found Siraj in a corner of the back room, standing before a wash bowl.

"I have decided you may serve me while I am in my quarters," he continued without looking. He was washing his hands in the bowl. "When you are not in the kitchen, I expect you to be here. You may sleep here, too. Help me with this shirt."

The quickly delivered directions took Herger by surprise. He limped over and took the shirt Siraj removed, then stood behind him as Siraj sat and continued washing his upper body with a cloth and the water. He was powerfully built, with a barrel chest and wide shoulders. Herger knew for certain now that his bulk was from his work, and that he was all muscle.

"Any comments?" Siraj asked. Herger realized he had never responded.

"No. …Master." Herger was proud of himself for getting that out in time before Siraj noticed its absence. He forced himself to add, "Thank you for this."

Siraj glanced at him as he rubbed the cloth under his arms. "I'm surprised at your change in behavior."

"I know what works and what doesn't. Master," Herger added. Siraj smiled, not without a sense of humor.

He finished cleaning up and pointed out the chest where his clean clothes were kept, for Herger to fetch a fresh shirt for him. When he was fully dressed again, Siraj went to a low, cushioned chair and made a gesture.

Herger brought the tray to him. He had to kneel to put it down, an action that nearly upset the tray because he had to favor his leg. Siraj saved the wine from tipping over and waited for the tray to reach the ground before pouring himself a cup.

"Go to the kitchen and eat. Come back here when you are finished." He spoke without looking at Herger, instead lifting the lids off the small bowls and plates, examining their contents.

Herger did as he was told; not because he was obedient, but because it was convenient for him.

He ate quickly, concentrating on meat and vegetables, ignoring the creamy soup and sweet fruit cakes. He needed his belly full, not fat. And after he finished eating, he went for a walk around the empty courtyard he'd found earlier. The activity got his blood pumping and exercised his leg well. But he couldn't go very long doing this; Siraj was expecting him back. When the sun was setting over the nearby hills, he walked back into the house.

 

 

It was night by the time Ahmed and the horseman had arrived at the slavers' camp, so they made their beds without talking to the group.

Ahmed did not sleep at all, keeping awake so that he could watch for any suspicious behavior by the horseman or his slave-trading, thieving friends. He pulled his robes and a blanket around him, as the wind was fiercely cold out in the exposed land. Gradually the fire died and his eyes adjusted to the dark. Then the moon rose from her daytime bed and lit the earth with her subtle glow, and he could make out the still black shapes of the slavers' camp. He sat, and watched.

When dawn came, he got up and made a fire, fixing tea for himself and waiting for the rest of the camps to awaken.

When the slavers saw him with his distant camp, he could see them standing still and watching him, but did not approach. Eventually the horseman awoke and joined his friends for breakfast. Ahmed stayed in the spot he had occupied all night, watching with gritty eyes as the horseman talked to the others, gesturing toward him. Finally Ahmed got him, his muscles complaining mightily at moving after so many hours of stillness. He shook off his blanket and approached the other camp.

When he was within hearing distance, he called out. "Good morning, gentlemen. I understand you have slaves?"

One man made a show of looking around the camp as Ahmed approached and stood there waiting for a response. The only people there were free men. "Not at the moment," he finally replied, a smart grin on his face. A nudge from the horseman made the joker settle down. Ahmed continued.

"I am missing property in Annaba, and I understand you may have come across it. A Northman, yellow hair, pale skin?"

The slavers looked around at each other, not entirely at ease. Finally another man spoke up.

"How do we know you are not cheating us?"

Keeping his eyes on the man's face, Ahmed withdrew the leather packet from inside his robe. He unwrapped it slowly, each gesture meaningful. Finally he held up a piece of parchment and averted his eyes to read from it.

" ‘Irene Sophianos hereby sells to her employee Ahmed ibn Fahdlan ibn Al Abbas ibn Rashid ibn Hamad one Northman slave by the name of Herger, in thanks for his magnificent service while in her employ.' "

Ahmed folded the letter and wrapped it back up.

The slaver who had last spoke looked even more uncomfortable. "We did not know he was yours. He was alone."

"I must be with my possessions at all times to keep thieves from them? How discouraging." Ahmed let a bite of anger into his voice, just enough to remind the horseman of what he could and would do to them if provoked.

"And you come all this way for a mere slave? Why?" The joker spoke up again. Ahmed looked back at him.

"I am not required to tell you of my inner thoughts and desires. Tell me what you have done with my property, and I will leave."

"We sold him." The other man, again. He sipped tea with a relaxed air after replying, not at all concerned with Ahmed or the business at hand.

"To the swordsmith?"

A few of the slavers looked at the horseman with wounded expressions, clearly offended that he had given Ahmed this information, but the leader nodded at Ahmed.

"We will tell you how to find him, though the way is not easy. You will then have to deal with him for your property, and he is not a man easily pleased."

"I will deal with that myself," Ahmed said. He watched their eyes shift as he put a hand on the grip of his saber.

 

 

Herger set Siraj's dinner tray down and straightened, looking around the room. He'd been told to bring the food here but Siraj wasn't actually present, and now he had no idea whether to wait or go back to the kitchen. He had eaten already, so there was no reason to leave, but no reason to stay either…

Siraj's footfalls answered his musings. He straightened and looked up as Siraj entered the room and closed the doors behind himself.

"Good, you're here," Siraj said, crossing the room. He stopped in front of Herger and turned his back, tugged his shirt out of his pants, and waited.

Herger took the hint after a moment of confusion, and helped Siraj out of the shirt. It was filthy with smoke and damp with sweat, evidence that Siraj had been at the anvil all day. He was a swordsmith, Herger had found out; that was why he was able to own so many slaves while still being a laborer himself. It also explained his skill with the dagger.

Herger tossed the shirt into the hamper he'd used the day before, while Siraj sat himself before his wash bowl.

This time Siraj sat still, doing nothing. It was a few moments before Herger realized he was expected to wash Siraj, not watch him do it.

His face burning, he took the washing cloth and soaked it in the water, then wrung it out and slapped it to Siraj's back. With brisk strokes, he wiped Siraj down as quickly as he might dust off a saddle.

Siraj only sat still, not saying anything as Herger worked. When Herger had wiped off all the reachable skin of Siraj's back, neck, and arms, Siraj then raised his arms to allow Herger to reach under.

Herger stopped, tempted even more to throw the cloth at Siraj's head. Finally he forced himself to rewet it and wash under Siraj's arms.

Siraj then waited while Herger dropped the cloth back into the bowl and retrieved a fresh shirt. "I enjoyed that."

"I'll bet you did," Herger ground out, shaking open the folded shirt.

Siraj took the shirt and pulled it on himself. "Now, bring me my dinner."

Herger set the tray in front of him when Siraj had taken a seat, then sat himself out of sight behind some draperies. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, calming himself as Siraj ate. It would be pointless to get angry and do something rash. He had fought men and monsters in many lands for most of his life. Surely he could act like a slave for a few more days.

"Herger?"

He made a sound of acknowledgment.

"Do you sing? Or play an instrument?"

A laugh escaped before Herger could stop himself. "No. Ah—no, _master_."

Siraj was silent for another moment, then: "Well, then I will just have to do without. Come here and have some of this wine."

Herger went just out of curiosity. He sat a few feet away from Siraj and watched as Siraj drained his cup, then refilled it and held it out.

"Why?" Herger asked, not taking the cup.

"Because I want you to." Siraj's expression was calm as Herger stared at him. Finally he took the cup and sipped. It was bitter and very strong. He liked it. He sipped again. "Good," Siraj said, leaning back on his cushion.

Herger lowered the cup. "I can tell stories."

Siraj nodded. "I would like that."

Draining the cup, Herger handed it back and watched Siraj refill it, then drink himself.

"This is a story of Roneth and Hyglak, who are both gone from this earth now." WIth Siraj's dark eyes trained on him, giving Herger his full attention, Herger began to feel more comfortable. He took a small pillow and put it behind him, making himself comfortable.

"We were in Middle Francia, trading for furs and wine, like this stuff we are drinking. The Franks liked my people's mead, and we had jewels and finery from Rome too. So we were doing very good trading, living like nobles, even looking as we do." Herger smiled, knowing exactly what people thought of him at first sight.

Siraj nodded, the dark gaze moving over Herger's face and hair.

"In one town there was a rich man, and this rich man had three daughters and no sons. He thought himself very poor because he had no sons, and wanted to do anything to marry his daughters away. And they were nice daughters—Joanne and Adela and Mathilde, all fifteen years—so this would not be a bad thing.

"When he saw what riches we had for trade, the man asked if we would be interested in his daughters too. I was not interested, and neither was Hyglak, but Roneth wanted to bargain.

"The only problem was, the rich man also had a stable full of horses. They were beautiful, strong on the green grass that grows in the valleys, with shining coats and healthy hooves. So it was difficult to choose between trading for the horses or for the girls.

"Joanne had hair the color of honey, blue eyes, and a pink mouth like flower petals. Adela had darker blonde hair and darker blue eyes, like a twin of her sister, only as if in a candlelit bedroom." Herger grinned as Siraj laughed at the suggestive image. Siraj passed him another cup of wine.

"And Mathilde was dark in every way. Her name made us think perhaps she had been conceived on a battle field, and with her coloring, this was even more likely. She was feisty and mature for her years.

"For days we enjoyed the man's hospitality while he tried to convince us to take his daughters. Of course our problem was that horses are better for trading than women, but the rich man was being stingy with his stock. Meanwhile Mathilde was the only one interested in marriage, while her sisters…they acted like we had stepped in something smelly, every time we came near them."

Siraj made a sympathetic sound. Herger accepted another full cup of wine and drank it quickly. His head was now buzzing pleasantly.

"Roneth spent time with Mathilde. He was a charmer, with silky blond hair and a fine figure. He could talk about skinning a cat and women would be entranced with him, such was his voice. So the courtship seemed to be progressing there. Meanwhile, Hyglak and I examined the horses. Hyglak we called the Quarrelsome, and he was very picky about everything, constantly trying to outwit the gods and get a better deal. He did this because he had not had an easy life: he had lost his right hand in battle and we had replaced it with an ax head. He blamed the gods for punishing him, and so he examined every item we traded for, to make sure it was pure and true." Herger chuckled to himself, the wine making him cheerful. "Me, I just check the hooves."

"I didn't know girls had hooves," Siraj said with a straight face.

They both burst into laughter, and chuckled together for some time before Herger could continue. He wiped dribbles of wine from his chin and swallowed, then gestured with the cup. "Finally the man asked us to make a decision or leave. We talked for hours into the night. The next morning we packed to leave."

"And what had you decided? What of Mathilde?" Siraj asked, fully engrossed in the story.

Herger grinned. "Roneth slept with her, while we took the horses."

Siraj's laugh rang out again. He had a powerful voice to match his body, Herger thought as he grinned.

Finally Siraj corked the jug of wine and set it aside. "I must sleep."

Herger nodded. He started to take his feet, knowing the dinner tray had to be returned to the kitchen, but tilted off-balance before he could even get off his knees. The wine had soaked into his head faster than he'd thought. Siraj laughed again and held out a hand of protest.

"Sleep now. You can deal with the rest in the morning."

Herger nodded, but got to his feet anyway. He cleared the tray to the side and blew out the candles and oil lamps around the rooms, then made his way to the pile of cushions and blankets that had become his bed. Within minutes, both he and Siraj were snoring.  


 

Herger awoke at dawn when Siraj closed the door on his rooms. The sound jerked him out of sleep, and he lay in bed for a few minutes while he oriented himself again.

He'd been dreaming that he'd been in Francia, in one of those cool glens with a clear-running stream, and Ahmed had been feeding him tart grapes by hand. He'd kept thinking he should keep an eye out for Hyglak or Roneth returning with the horses, but then Ahmed had started undressing, and he had been distracted. Ahmed had just started pulling on the drawstrings of his pants when Siraj's door had awakened Herger.

He sat up and rubbed his hands over his face. He had a mild headache and the taste of sleep in his mouth, but other than that, no ill effects from the overabundance of wine the night before. The ache in his loins was another condition entirely, one he was very familiar with.

Sighing, he pushed the blankets away and got up. He washed his face and pushed his hair back with wet hands, then stood at a window as he dried them on a towel. The sight had not changed; there was nothing outside but a few dried shrubs and miles of brown hills. Even with his leg nearly back to normal, escape would be futile.

His dream was still in the back of his mind. Where was Ahmed? Was he looking for him? Had he given up and gone on to Cordoba? Or perhaps he had run into trouble of his own…

He was taken out of his thoughts by the sight of Geizbart outside. He had come around the side of the building and was carrying two buckets of water, obviously coming from the river. He was walking carefully but quickly, bent under the weight of the yoke over his shoulders. Dust rose in little puffs under his shuffling feet.

The sight of a man laboring at chores reminded Herger of his own neglected duties. Tossing the towel aside, he picked up the empty dinner tray and went back to the kitchen.

The day's routine was repeated without incidence. At one point the woman made some mint tea and had Herger prepare a tray, directing him to a door. When he opened it he realized she wanted him to take it to Siraj—he was standing on the threshold to one of the courtyards and could see and hear Siraj at his work. He took the tea over and waited for a break in the pounding before speaking the man's name.

Siraj put his work down and wiped a forearm over his brow, then took the cup from the tray Herger held. He said nothing as he drank it slowly, eyes scanning the courtyard. Herger watched him, taking in the details of Siraj's exposed face and neck, and the powerful forearms leading to broad hands, which held the cup delicately.

Finally Siraj put the cup back and returned to his work without a word.

As Herger returned to the house, he realized that Siraj's strength, quiet nature, and intelligence reminded him very much of Buliwyf. The thought troubled him; for one thing, it made him a little sad to think of his friend, but it also reminded him of how intimate he and Buliwyf had once been.

He drank some of the tea as he sat by the fire and thought of his past. All his lost friends, and Ahmed; what he would give to even be able to talk to them, to have some connection to Valhalla so that he could call their names and tell them he missed them, like calling into a dark cave. And his family: would they be disappointed in him? Would they tell him what he already knew, that he had done nothing useful or remarkable with his life?

The kitchen woman was calling for him. He rubbed his face briskly, dispelling his thoughts, and stood.  


 

Dinner was again uneventful. After he had finished eating, Siraj opened the jug of wine and invited Herger to tell another story.

He told a humorous tale about how Weath and Skeld had been lying in grass, hunting deer, when several harmless snakes had slid by their noses and scared them both into shrieking like girls. Siraj laughed in all the appropriate places and kept handing the wine to Herger.

"Now tell me about your markings," Siraj said when the story had ended.

Herger took a gulp of wine and sat on his heels. "This is Latin, to remind me of how the gods work," he said while pointing to the initials on his forearm. " 'Fortune is blind.' And the rest on this arm are just designs; my people's, and this Greek one here. I got it in Athenae." He held out his other arm, pointing. "My father's name in runes. This is a stag." The rest was under his clothing. He untied the belt and stripped the shift off, then pointed to the one covering his chest and shoulder. "A sea monster."

Siraj seemed impressed. He nodded and poured Herger more wine. "I had a slave from Rus with markings on his skin; magnificent, head to foot. He died in the heat one day, working out in an empty courtyard. I did not know he had been working without rest or water, or I would have made sure he'd had those things. He wanted too much to impress me, I think."

"I think I have seen that courtyard," Herger said, draining his cup. "With the tree?"

Siraj nodded. "I do not use it much. I would like to, but I feel it is unusable now."

Herger scoffed. Siraj seemed offended and fell silent. They said nothing for a few moments, and then Herger leaned forward and poured Siraj another cup of wine.

"I notice you do not wear a turban."

Siraj shook his head. "I am not like other Muslim. I am of the People of Monotheism, a Druze, as some call us."

Herger nodded, but the details of what Siraj had just said went over his head. An Arab was an Arab, regardless of their religious sect. He had just been commenting on Siraj's clothing choices.

"My people and I are scattered in the mountains, led by Imam Hamza in Bayrût. We have survived here because our people are a small brotherhood, but hardy."

"Survived! It is likely the drink talking," Herger laughed, stretching out and propping his head up on a hand, "but you Arabs are a beautiful people, under the rags and the blankets and the dirt."

Siraj mirrored Herger's pose, stretching out on his side and propping himself up. "You take notice of the strangest things, Northman."

"What do you mean?" Herger laughed again. "I've been fucking an Arab. Well, not fucking him, precisely. He won't allow it. But the sex we have had has been a marvel."

When Siraj's eyes widened, Herger realized that perhaps he should not have said so much. But Siraj took the information in an entirely different vein.

"You enjoyed your master's touch, then?"

Trying to save himself, Herger decided not to correct the man about Ahmed's power over him. "He is innocent, but a quick learner."

"You have been the one to teach him?"

Herger nodded and reached down to stroke himself. This conversation was making him feel peckish. Or maybe it was the drink. Or both.

"What have you taught him?"

Herger brought his attention back to Siraj. He was broaching a subject Herger didn't want to talk much about—not with him, anyway—but he couldn't stop now without irritating Siraj or rousing suspicion. He continued.

"How to suck a man, and be sucked; kissing and licking; rubbing against each other; lover's lock…"

"What's that?"

Herger thought for a moment of the fastest way to explain it. Surely Siraj already knew of the maneuver… "Say I turned around, head to your feet."

"Ah." Siraj nodded with understanding. His face was red.

"And he has fucked me. He did not like me fucking him." The ache was growing. Herger lost himself in his thoughts and missed Siraj's reaction, until he spoke.

"He let you?"

Siraj sounded curious, but there was a note of suspicion in there. No slave would be the sexual aggressor over his master. Herger shrugged and shook his head, not answering.

Siraj did not let it go. "You had a strange relationship with this man. And if I wanted you in the same ways? What would you do?"

That was not remotely close to any of the things Herger had thought he might hear. He had expected Siraj to command Herger to serve him in other ways, readying him for bed and taking the tray back to the kitchen, not relaxing on the cushions talking about sex. But if Siraj was comfortable talking about this, so would he be. Siraj had just put himself in Herger's hands, and he liked that shift of power.

"i would make sure the bedroom and the rest of your quarters were private to only us. I would give you a show, make myself bigger by stroking. Then I'd do whatever you'd ask of me." With this, Herger stopped and licked his lips, trying to look lascivious.

Siraj took the bait. "These quarters are private," he said, face still flushed dark. "We will not be disturbed."

Herger rolled to his feet and made a show of going to check the lock on the door, then took his time coming back. Siraj was watching him closely, eyeing the heavy sway of his cock and the way Herger's hands kept stroking his chest and stomach.

As he performed this little exhibition, Herger contemplated bargaining for something if Siraj really wanted sex. He soon rejected the idea; there was nothing Siraj would give him that would be useful; certainly not his freedom. But this might be worth doing if it would put him in Siraj's graces.

"Come here," Siraj grumbled, sitting up. Herger noted a bulge shifting in his loose pants as he moved. But Siraj didn't touch himself, and let his hands rest lightly on his knees as Herger walked closer.

Dropping to his knees on the cushion, Herger sat back on his heels and faced the man who owned him. "What do you want me to do, Master?"

Siraj opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked over Herger again, examining every bare inch.

The man had no idea where to begin. He did not know what he want, if he even wanted Herger that way at all. Perhaps he only wanted the pleasure Herger offered, without regard to who delivered it.

Herger had to help him.

He moved closer, until his knees touched Siraj's folded legs. Kneeling up, he reached out and began pulling up the loose shirt Siraj wore. He could not do it without help, but Siraj lifted his arms at the right moment.

Siraj was staring at his face after the shirt cleared his head. Herger did not meet his gaze, but instead looked over the newly exposed chest and arms. As Herger had seen while washing him, Siraj was built bigger in the chest than Ahmed and had a little more wiry black hair on his body, but other than that, looking at the dark skin made Herger long for earlier days.

He put the thought out of his mind. He had to focus, as drunk as he was. Wishing for Ahmed was pointless.

Touching Siraj's shoulders, Herger pressed him onto his back. Siraj started breathing faster, and put his hands to the top of his pants at his waist, as if readying himself for their removal with one last reassuring touch. Herger let him be for a moment. He had teasing in mind.

He put a knee between Siraj's thighs. Siraj spread his legs with a short breath. The fabric of his pants brushed Herger's leg as he put his weight on his knees and leaned forward. His hands he braced on either side of Siraj's torso, letting his forearm brush Siraj's far side. Siraj curled away from the contact for a moment, then relaxed, letting his waist press against Herger's arm.

Finally Herger leaned forward, balancing his weight on all limbs, his head positioned over Siraj's chest. He bent closer and heard Siraj inhale suddenly, and saw his stomach contract inward. Moving as if he had not noticed, he put his mouth directly above one nipple, and breathed.

Siraj let out the breath he had been holding. Herger registered Siraj's hips moving slightly, a barely detectable squirm. As little as he cared about the man, the result pleased him. He had a job to do, and doing it well was satisfying in a small way.

Knowing Siraj was watching him intently, Herger then extended his tongue, stretching it as far as it would go. The tip met Siraj's tense nipple. He licked it lightly, a single flick.

Siraj said, "Ah."

Herger fought the urge to smile and moved his tongue in a tiny circle, licking the whole area of his nipple. Siraj made another sound and his hips moved again.

He continued to lick gently like this, then, when Siraj seemed used to the sensation, Herger clamped his mouth around the bud and sucked firmly. Siraj jerked and cried out.

Herger nearly lifted his head, but then he felt a hand fist in his hair and hold him down. Now he let himself smile.

He sucked hard for a few seconds, then pulled away and performed the same process on the other nipple. Siraj groaned softly.

Siraj smelled good, musky and rich, with a faint hint of the perfumed oil that went into Siraj's wash water. Herger paused in his seduction to enjoy the scent and feel of him. He inhaled deeply and rubbed his face against Siraj's chest, his beard catching on the short curly hair.

Siraj groaned and put both hands into Herger's hair, rubbing his scalp encouragingly. It made Herger's head tingle pleasantly, sending a shiver down his back.

Siraj groaned again. "Herger…"

Herger moved his face down Siraj's chest, where the skin over his ribs and sides was bare and soft as suede. When Herger rubbed his beard over this, Siraj shivered. Herger gave an appreciative lick and moved on.

With the slightest urging Siraj lifted his hips and let Herger pull down his loose pants, then kicked them off. Herger rubbed his hands over the backs of Siraj's thighs and his buttocks. Siraj squirmed again, breathing heavily, then dropped his hips back to the cushion. Before Siraj had caught his breath, Herger had taken his arousal in hand and eased him into his mouth.

He licked first before sucking the shaft in, wetting it so the skin wouldn't catch against his lips. It had the added benefit of allowing Herger to examine Siraj by touch, using his mouth to feel the girth and length of him, as well as taste and texture. The musky smell and smooth, unsheathed tip were so similar to Ahmed that Herger had to remind himself of where he was and who he was with. Not that the truth was any more comforting.

He took Siraj completely in, long and slow, his mind going blank as his mouth worked automatically. Doing this was pleasant enough, but nothing like the real pleasure of _wanting_ to do it to please someone. His only goal was to bring Siraj physical pleasure and, by extension, favorable attention to himself. Although Herger was hard, he wasn't interested in finding release with Siraj. It was the kind of lust that would easily fade even without spending.

He continued working Siraj with his mouth, speeding up a little as Siraj reacted favorably. His tongue found and caressed all of the sensitive ridges of Siraj's shaft, while his cheeks provided warm, wet suction. As he had expected, Siraj was soon thrusting up into his mouth. Herger just opened his mouth and let him move, feeling the tip bump the back of his mouth with every push and his dense pubic hair brushing Herger's nose and chin.

It felt nice at first, but after a few minutes Herger began to get bored. All he wanted was for Siraj to climax, not to make an evening out of it. Pulling up, he angled his head and pushed Siraj's legs out of his way. In a quick motion he took one of Siraj's balls in his mouth. The coarse hair on it felt rough against his tongue, but the move worked, as Siraj's moans got louder.

He sucked on each testicle for a few moments, then licked back up the shaft of his cock to the head. He opened his eyes as he licked the tip, and found Siraj watching him with a wide gaze. Siraj's mouth dropped open with another moan and his hips surged clumsily. Herger took his cock back into his mouth in time to catch the emissions.

Siraj didn't look at him for a long time after Herger had finished swallowing and sat up. While Siraj lay panting with his eyes closed, Herger pulled on his shift and got himself some water. He drank two cups before Siraj roused himself and sat up on the bed.

Herger brought him another cup of water and knelt on the floor next to the cushion. He stayed silent and looked into the distance, waiting as Siraj drank.

"Didn't you enjoy that?" Siraj asked finally, holding the empty cup out. He'd noticed that Herger was still half-hard.

Herger took the cup and rose to put it back on the tray, happy to distance himself from the bed. "My enjoyment is not important. I am only a slave." He did feel some satisfaction at saying so; it would impress upon Siraj that if he wanted Herger to feel pleasure, he couldn't keep him a slave.

"But you enjoyed serving your old master."

Herger didn't turn, knowing he was risking rebuke the longer he kept presenting his back. But he couldn't face Siraj, having to answer that.

"It is not the same," he said finally.

He heard the cushion rustle, and the light in the room dimmed. "Go to sleep," Siraj said, voice heavy.

Herger looked sideways, idly turning the cup on the tray. From what he could see by the corner of his eye, Siraj had pulled blankets over himself and settled under them.

He felt out of sorts, with the awkward conversation ending there and the taste of Siraj's emissions still in his mouth. At odds with what had just happened, he drank another cup of water, then extinguished all the lights in the room. He would go to sleep and forget about this, and never do it again.  


 

By mid-day, everything had gone to hell.

Siraj was avoiding him like he was an outcast, Geizbart had yelled at him about something (he still hadn't figured out what), and he'd burned his fingers handling a pot of soup. By the time the midday meal had been served, he was ready to punch Siraj as soon as look at him.

Then the young slave boy came running into the kitchen and grabbed the woman, chattering excitedly. As they quickly left the kitchen and headed toward the front doors of the house, Herger followed as best he could, still trying to walk lightly with his bad leg.

The slaves were gathered around the windows that faced the front courtyard, pressing their faces to the screens and talking among themselves. Herger tried to get a look in but he was the last to arrive, and no space was left for him. He was about to go back to the kitchen when Siraj came striding through the house, unrolling the sleeves of his shirt. Without a look to any of them, he flung the doors open and strode outside.

Over his shoulder, Herger saw a man in the front courtyard. He had two horses; one brown, the other white. Herger's heart stopped.

 

 

"Are you the swordsmith?" Ahmed yelled at the man approaching.

"It depends. Who are you?"

If Ahmed were being polite, he would dismount and walk forward to greet the man as an equal. Instead he stayed in the saddle. He was hot, exhausted, dirty, parched, and angry. He was not in the mood for niceties.

"I am Ahmed ibn Fahdlan ibn Al Abbas ibn Rashid ibn Hamad, and you have my Northman."


	3. Chapter 3

"I am Ahmed ibn Fahdlan ibn Al Abbas ibn Rashid ibn Hamad, and you have my Northman."

Siraj stopped walking and crossed his arms over his chest. "I may. If you would come down from there we can discuss this."

"If you have him, bring him out! Then I will come down!"

Herger could wait no longer. He pushed away from the doors and walked into the courtyard, his steps quickening as he got into the open. He had not been seen yet.

"Eben!" he yelled.

Ahmed’s head jerked. He saw Herger and slid out of the saddle with a cry, but then grabbed Asiya’s mane and held onto her as if unable to stand.

Herger jogged forward. Siraj put an arm out as if to hold him back, but Herger ignored him and moved around, not stopping until he got to Ahmed. He grabbed him by the arms to make sure he would not fall down. Ahmed touched his shoulders and neck, patting as if to reassure himself that Herger was real, and nodded.

"You look terrible," he said, speaking Norse for privacy. He looked concerned, checking over Herger from head to toe.

"So do you." Herger could not wipe the joyful grin from his face. Ahmed was dusty and sweaty and obviously exhausted, and had never looked so enticing.

"I have been riding for more than two days to get you, you motherless dog!" Herger laughed, making Ahmed smile at last. "Now, let me speak to this man and get this mess sorted out."  


 

Herger fully intended to be a part of whatever congress Ahmed wanted to hold with Siraj, but one or both of the Arabs was not having it. After hastily unloading the horses, he had come back to the sitting room of the house and found the doors barred. He shook them on their hinges and pounded a few times, but the low murmur of voices never paused within.

His face hot, Herger turned on his heel and went back out to the paddock. Hross had greeted him happily before, but in his earlier haste Herger had not returned the affection. Now he stepped up to the fence and said, "Come here, you big bastard."

The horse’s head flew up and his ears perked. The ground fairly shook as Hross trotted over to the edge of the enclosure, bending to nudge and rub against Herger’s head and shoulders. As usual, he didn’t know his own strength and nearly knocked Herger off-balance with his love taps. Herger laughed, his bad mood slowly breaking apart, and reached up to rub his ears and stroke his face, tracing the splash of white down his nose. "I missed you too."

He went back to the goods and saddlebags that he’d left on the barn floor, and began going through his things. He found his old clothes and stripped out of the slave’s shift right there, pulling on his leathers and shirt with angry jerking motions. He also found his boots, with his smaller blade left safely inside one. As he was bending over and pulling them on, he heard people behind him. He looked over his shoulder, upside down, and saw Ahmed walking toward him. Siraj was standing in a doorway behind Ahmed.

Herger straightened and crossed his arms, waiting for Ahmed to reach him. Ahmed gave him a weak smile and looked over his clothing, nodding in approval.

"It is good to see you back in your own things, although we will have to find you something suitable for the heat again. I could hardly believe how poorly you looked in that slave garment."

Remembering it, Herger turned and kicked it, making it roll further away into the dust. It was a fruitless action, but it made him feel a little better, knowing that Siraj was watching.

"Siraj will not argue with the document I have shown him. You are free to go. We will leave in the morning, and I will be Siraj’s guest tonight."

"What document?"

Ahmed looked confused for a moment, then ashamed. Immediately suspicious, Herger repeated himself.

And then Ahmed explained, reaching into his robe to pull out a packet that had been tucked against his breast.

Herger was shocked to see Ahmed produce the parchment declaring his ownership of Herger. He belonged to no man. Not even to Irene, as much as he had come to love her; nor to Ahmed, for whom he would lay down his life. His life was his to do with as he chose, and no document would decide that for him.

Yet the gods seemed to be conspiring to prove him wrong at every turn. After seeing the parchment, Herger had stormed away from Ahmed at the paddock, not wanting to get involved in an argument. Siraj had seen him approaching the house and called, "I believe there is still a cot for you in the slave’s quarters."

Herger saw red. Before he could think, he’d slammed Siraj up against the door and put an elbow to his throat. He opened his mouth to say something, he didn’t know what.

Then he felt a blade against his belly.

"Unhand me," Siraj murmured.

Herger lifted his elbow enough for Siraj to breathe easily, but that was all. He continued glaring, even as the blade pressed harder. He could feel it penetrating his shirt.

"You’re good enough for a suck, but that’s as much of your hands on me as I will tolerate."

Herger felt his hands start to shake. He dropped his arms, backing away from the blade.

"What does he mean?" Ahmed asked from behind him. Herger didn’t turn.

Siraj looked at him, waiting, then looked at Ahmed when Herger said nothing. "He tried to win my favor…through favors. He is quite talented, I will grant you that."

Herger pushed past Siraj into the house before he could hear Ahmed’s reaction. Judging from Siraj’s laughter behind him, Ahmed was as dumbstruck as he was.

He got to the slave’s quarters and sat on an empty cot, cursing himself for a coward and a fool. He had no idea what had happened, why his strength had suddenly left him when Siraj had mentioned the coupling. It was an embarrassment. And he could feel the fluttering still, the weakness in his gut and arms and legs. He clenched his fists, trying to work strength back into them like moving blood back into a limb that had fallen asleep.

Eventually the slaves came in, some picking their teeth and belching. Herger remembered he had not eaten the midday meal, but now he was not hungry. The other slaves annoyed him, even their bodily expressions. It was a sad irony: Ahmed had remarked to him on his own manners at various times, and here he was disdainful of others for the same things. He stretched out on the cot and stared at the ceiling, avoiding their gazes, trying to ignore them.

An hour passed, then two. The room had grown dark, the slaves snoring in their sleep. Herger uncrossed his arms and sat up, rolling to his feet. Walking carefully so his boots wouldn’t scrape, he opened the door and slipped into the hallway, now familiar.

Ahmed opened his door within moments of Herger’s knock. He had clearly been expecting Herger. Herger slipped inside, watching Ahmed’s weak smile fade as Herger came into the low light of the room.

"I am glad you have come. I was afraid of what you were going to do."

"Afraid I would suck his prick again?"

Ahmed’s eyes clouded. "What happened?" he whispered. He sounded like he was in pain.

Herger shrugged, a difficult motion considering how tight his chest felt. "I have been his slave. Are you not familiar with what slaves do for their master’s favor?"

"But…" Ahmed’s protest died. "I am sorry," he finished, miserable.

Herger waved a hand, walking into the room and looking around. "Keep your sympathies."

There were such nice things in here. Siraj kept the room well appointed for guests. Ahmed was surely comfortable.

He heard rustling, and turned to see Ahmed disrobing. Ahmed saw him watching and paused, his dishdashah hanging open over his shirt and pants.

"Let us put this day behind us. We have both been hurt; me for discovering what you did with Siraj, and you for discovering the document. We should not dwell on these hurts, but heal them together."

Herger snorted to himself at Ahmed’s poetic way of putting things, but he did not argue. The document did rankle, but its presence had released him from bondage. And the fucking, that did not matter to him. He nodded finally, realizing Ahmed was waiting for a reaction.

Ahmed summoned a smile and let his robe drop off his arms, then pulled his shirt up. Herger saw the flash of brown belly and chest, and immediately thought of Siraj, how he had undressed him with his own hands. Turning away, he pulled at his own clothes, ashamed and angry at the unbidden thought.

When they were both undressed, they lay down on the sleeping cushions and Ahmed pulled blankets over them both. Herger looked over and saw Ahmed reaching for the lamp, grunting as he stretched. There were scratches and bruises all over his back, obviously causing him pain. Herger reached out and touched one of the worst scratches, trying to keep his fingers light. Ahmed twitched in surprise but did not pull away.

"What happened?"

Ahmed spoke over his shoulder. "A fight. I fell down a slope…many rocks."

"You, fighting?" Herger was impressed. Before he could get a better look, Ahmed blew out the lamp and rolled onto his back. The darkness was sudden and utterly complete; there were no windows in this room.

"It is a long story." Ahmed’s voice came through the dark, and seemed louder for the lack of sight.

Herger thought of asking Ahmed to tell him the details, but Ahmed seemed tired. He rolled onto his side, putting his back toward Ahmed, and tried to sleep.  


 

Herger heard a knock on Ahmed’s door at daybreak. He answered, not bothering to dress, rubbing his face sleepily.

Siraj was standing there, while Herger had expected it to be Geizbart or another slave. He awoke a little more when he saw the dark, bearded face.

Siraj glanced over him, but said nothing about his nakedness. He held out a bundle of fabric, waiting until Herger took it before explaining, "Some old things of mine."

Herger was confused by what he meant, and it must have shown on his face, because Siraj said gruffly, "You think you should go to Cordoba wearing those things you had yesterday, and die in the heat? Suit yourself." He turned away and went down the hallway.

Herger closed the door and began dressing himself. While he was busy, Ahmed awoke and sat up in bed, taking in the sight of Herger with sleepy blinks.

"It was his," Herger murmured, quiet in the morning stillness, and pulled at his new shirt. Ahmed nodded, untangling himself from a blanket and coming over to make some adjustments in the fit and fastening. When he was done he quickly ran a fingertip over Herger’s mouth, the gesture a sort of intimate greeting. Herger licked his lip in reaction as Ahmed dropped his hand.

"Breakfast," he proposed. After Ahmed had dressed, Herger led the way.

There was already some fruit chopped, and hot tea and warm bread. The kitchen slave woman had been up early, probably recognizing that she needed to be at her best with a guest in the house. But Ahmed and Herger sat at the prep table rather than in the reception room, and had their breakfast in companionable silence.

After they ate, Herger went out to prepare the horses while Ahmed finished his tea. He was in the midst of hauling out saddles and tack when he noticed Ahmed approaching from the house. Walking off in another direction was Siraj, going toward his workspace.

"You should know what Siraj had to offer us."

Herger dropped the tack to the ground and shook his hair out of his face, squinting at Ahmed in the bright, early sunlight.

"He wants me—you and I—to stay on here, giving him advice on war strategy."

Herger’s eyebrows flew up. "What?"

"That is apparently why he is so hard at work. He is helping arm his people. And he offered to make it worth our while."

That made the offer more interesting. He had been eager to leave this wretched captivity with Ahmed by his side, but…

But fighting for profit in Al-Jaza'ir…that could lead to something, perhaps something far more interesting than Cordoba. Siraj hadn’t asked him to fight yet, but once he saw Herger’s skill, the next offer would be quick to come. Siraj had shown himself to be a reasonable man, on occasion. Herger fingered the collar of his shirt.

While Herger was thinking, Ahmed had been watching him. Finally he broke into Herger’s thoughts and said, "Please, let us not accept."

Herger had been expecting that, but he still asked: "Why not?"

"He bought you to serve him. He starved you until you gave in to him. He forced you to barter your body for decent treatment!" Ahmed’s voice had risen a little by the time he stopped himself.

Herger stared. He hadn’t known Siraj had told Ahmed those things, but it explained why Ahmed had seemed so unhappy the night before.

"All right," he said easily. "Tell him no."

Ahmed visibly relaxed. He nodded and turned away, going back toward the house.

Herger finished readying the horses, then took them around to the front courtyard. Soon Ahmed joined him, carrying his saddlebags and filled water skins. Siraj followed, and stood in the doorway while Ahmed finished packing and mounted.

Ahmed raised a hand in goodbye as he tugged on Asiya’s reins and turned her. Herger made no such civil gesture, and turned his back on the Tunisian.  


 

A thought occurred to him as he rode away with Ahmed. "Did you ride for two days to get here with both Hross and Asiya?"

Ahmed squinted at him. "What did you say?"

Herger repeated himself. When Ahmed stared in confusion, he added, "Hross, my horse." Then he grinned, anticipating the question. Ahmed knew enough Norse to understand Hross’ name.

"You named your horse…’horse’?"

"Of course!"

It had always made perfect sense to Herger.

He dug his heels into Hross’ flanks. Hross thundered across the plain to the hills, almost as if he could smell the waters off Annaba. Asiya had trouble keeping up.  


 

In Annaba, Ahmed found a small fishing vessel to take them to Sebta. For once, they were both in agreement on something about the travel: that the stench of fish was nearly unbearable, but at least they were moving and were not in the desert.

With renewed energy, Herger lent a hand to the fishermen, helping them haul in nets and sort their catches as they made their way along the coast. His help made the work go faster, and as a consequence, they reached Sebta a day earlier than anticipated. The crew was thankful for the payment in kind.

In Sebta Ahmed and Herger led their horses off the boat and onto the pier, waving goodbye to the happier fishermen. They rode off quickly, both of them full of vigor for leaving the southern continent for something more welcoming and interesting. They rounded the large mountain with its fort and convent, continuing along the waterfront until Ahmed found a small inn on the south side of the peninsula were Sebta lay, and left Herger to watch their belongings while he arranged for a room.

Herger dismounted and stood between the horses, bracing an arm on each saddle, relaxed. The sun was just setting as he stood there, watching. The coast of this land, Mauretania Tingitana as the Romans called it, stretched far south and east before him, mostly water with land curving gently away. As a result his view was mostly clear, and he could see the point where the sun found the edge of the earth and began to fall below.

Some devilish event was squeezing the poor sun, flattening her into an odd shape and turning her flaming red. He watched, not having to shield his eyes as the red color was not harmful, and lost himself in the fascinating sight.

A hand at his shoulder started him violently. He turned and saw Ahmed standing behind him, smiling gently. Herger cursed him but smiled back, then tilted his head at the sun.

"She’s gone to her bed. Shall we go to ours?"

Ahmed’s fingers spread on his shoulder, rubbing for a moment before withdrawing. "We shall."


End file.
